


Fingerprints

by natcat5



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, But also not, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Weird thing, also assassins, really weird love story, soul mates, sounds cheesy but it's not, weird love story, well it kind of is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dirk is working for the Condesce until he's strong enough to kill her, and Jake learns that 'love at first sight' doesn't always lead to happy endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eulogy

**1\. Eulogy**

It’s raining when you first see him. 

You’re soaked, wearing nothing but a light green t-shirt and cargo shorts. The morning had started out bright and blue, with a sun as golden as they come, and comparatively as hot as some of the warmer climates you’ve visited. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky when you left your hotel, but now a gray canopy enshrouds the city, and the rain thundering down is nothing short of a downpour.

There is a haze over everything, and both the landscape and the people around you seem shapeless, colourless. Mounds of gray rainjackets and monochrome umbrellas, upturned to the similarly shaded sky. The buildings are washed out stone and glass, melding into the gray sky, gray road, gray sidewalk, and gray people. You find yourself filled with longing for the green of your island, and your eyes drift downwards to look mournfully at your shirt, the faded colour incomparable to the vibrant emeralds and jades of your tropical flora. The rain trickles down your neck and you shiver, hunching your shoulders as you lift your head.

That’s when you see him.

It’s his hair that gets you, bright blonde, practically gold in the colourless world. It’s spiky and disorganized, drooping, but not plastered to his head with the weight of the water like everyone around him. A thick pair of oddly shaped shades obscures most of his face, and he’s dressed in black from head to toe.

He’s colourless, like everything else. Pale as a corpse and black as nothingness. But his hair is bright gold like captured sunlight, and there’s a gleam of red at his ear that catches your eye as he turns, walking away.

Gold and red. And black. And white. You watch as he walks past you and down the street, turning a corner and out of your sight.

You stay staring in the direction you saw him go until your bus finally pulls up.

//

You are eight years old when you first meet her. 

Barefoot and dirty, with red on your shirt and hair and hands and knees. Red rimmed eyes, puffy and shadowed. A heavy hand is on your neck and collar and you can almost imagine the feeling of having your head jerked to the side, the bone efficiently snapped, blood out of your mouth.

You remember having blood in your mouth before. When you ran and slipped and fell and were bathed in a deep red, redder than anything you remember. Feeling it soak into your clothes, world tilting right and left as you turned and saw cracked black sunglasses and a curled hand stretched out towards you. Smeared red fingerprints across the floor. The smell of salt and metal and rust and your brother’s ironically cheap-and-shitty cologne all mixed together and filling you choking you.

You screamed then, and you cried then, but you don’t scream now, and you refuse to cry.

You refuse to let Her see you cry.

She is black and red and pink and all sharp edges and points. Angular body and a gleaming grin, all a top of a pointy chair of gold and pink and black and red that makes you think ‘throne’ when you see it. But it can’t be a throne, because she’s not a queen.

_She is a witch._

And her eyes are piercing you. The heavy hand drops away from your neck but you stay fixed to the spot. Your clothes are stiff with dried blood and you’ve been up all night but you don’t move. You stay standing, and wish you could stop shaking.

She smiles.

“Hello,” she says, and you are reminded simultaneously of nails on a chalkboard and water filling lungs, “Your name is Dirk, yea?”

Up until now, your anger has been a slow moving river of magma inside your chest and heart and soul, but now it comes bubbling up a red hot fountain of fire and hate as she smiles at you with her baroness grin and her cooing voice, and you scream.

IHATEYOUIHATEYOUYOUKILLEDMYBROTHERIHATEYOUIHATEYOUYOU’REEVILYOU’REHORRIBLEYOU’REGOINGTOKILLEVERYONEIHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU

I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.

“Like you killed Boxcar?” she replies with a grin, and the magma turns to ice as you remember hiding on top of a bookcase and jumping down, stabbing down, screaming and choking and the smell of blood was everywhere and then you couldn’t stop throwing up until they hit you and caught you and brought you to this too sharp women and let the blood dry on your clothes. Your blood, the-man-called-Boxcar’s blood, your brother’s blood.

You only touched him once before they pulled you away. You smeared bloody fingerprints on your brother's cheek the same way he’d smeared them on the floor. Your blood and Boxcar’s blood and his blood.

“I doubt that will happen,” she’s still talking. Sharp pointed grin gleaming eyes mocking laughter, “But times is boring without a little stir, amirite? How’s about-,”

The hand is back on your neck and collar and she’s leaning close, too close, flawless lipstick and a beauty mark under her eye.

“How’s about I give you the chance to try?”

.

.

You write _Dirk Strider_ in blood and sign away your life. 


	2. Eulogy (Part 2)

Jane’s apartment is decently sized.  You’d even hazard to say it’s rather large. She opens the door flushed and covered in flour and you laugh because you know that she bakes when she’s excited, nervous, bored, and everything in between.

The welcome cupcakes are much appreciated and you tell her that she ought to replace the Betty Crocker recipe with her own. She smiles and says that she intends to, once the old hag kicks the bucket once and for all.

Well, she doesn’t say so in quite those terms. But you’re both thinking it. You had been under the impression that Jane was to take over the company when she turned eighteen, but four years later, and no cigar. It’s a damned shame, too. You get the most unsavory vibes from old Crockercorp these days, and it’s assuredly not from any paranoia leftover from your dearest Grandma. You’d just feel much better with the company in Jane’s hands. She’s a peach, really. And an absolutely top friend, letting you stay in her apartment until you can find a place of your own in the city.

The concept is strange, unbelievably foreign. You haven’t had ‘a place of your own’ since your island. All you’ve done since you left it is travel, visit. Explore and search. Hot tropical jungles and arid deserts. Islands and coasts and forests and wastelands. You’ve slept in huts and treehouses and mudhouses as well as more standard dwellings in the mountains of Europe. But never a place of your own. Not among the snow-capped icy peaks, not lost amid the vines and wide leaves. No place found among the dapples of light filtering through the forest canopy or hidden among the sweeping dunes stretching as far as the eye could be. Always the places of others. And you, visiting. Always visiting.

But now here you are, in a city of all places. Looking for a ‘place of your own’. The scraping-sky buildings with their glass and stone and the packed streets full of sleek gray cars is more foreign to you than the Czech mountains, dotted with sloping villages and roaming wildlife. Your nose burns with the thickness of the smog in the air and the buildings are so close together, the people, the cars, everything squished into a tiny space. It’s claustrophobic, and you feel like you can’t breathe.

And everything is gray.

Everything is so gray, even the sky. _Especially_ the sky. The buildings are so tightly clustered that they block the heavens from view, and the slivers you can see are just…gray.

There is no colour. No breath.

But you are going to look for ‘a place of your own’ here. Because you have walked through snow and sand and danced in the Carnivals of the Caribbean and beat drums in time with the tribes of the African savannah and slept in a hut full of a children in rural Vietnam and broke bread in the house of a wealthy Polish merchant but you have been alone.

Your grandma died and you went looking. You went looking because suddenly the wide open spaces of your island were suffocating and the green of her eyes surrounded you and you cried. The salty air tasted like your tears and you grew to hate the taste of pumpkin and you had to leave. So you left. And you traveled and visited and tried to heal.

You only ever had two people in your life. Your grandma and the second-or-third cousin through adoption you met when you were ten. Jane. You saw her on the one and only trip off the island that you accompanied your grandma on, and stayed in touch with her via the interwebs for the next decade.  

Now you are here with her again, meeting face to face for the first time in twelve years. She is much the same as you remember, round and smiling. A little nervous, a little fidgety, but with a twinkle in her eyes that reminds you of your grandma and makes you ache while at the same time filling you. Filling a little of that void in your chest you’ve had in the absence of ‘home’.

You sit at her table and take a bite of the cupcake she made and think that yes, maybe you made the right decision coming to this jungle of concrete and glass. The world is gray but you won’t be alone anymore.

You don’t want to be alone anymore.

//

You are alone and you are burning.

The light and heat from the city that surrounds you is too much, and you can feel the fire consuming you. The warmth from the traffic lights and the neon signs singe the back of your neck, and it’s like you’re cooking inside of your jacket. Wrapped up tight and shoved into the coals, like a hot dog wrapped in aluminum foil. Flames lick at your boots, nip at your clothes, stroke sensually at your flesh, and you feel exhaust smoke burn your lungs from the inside out.

You hate this place.

You’ve been back for less then a day, but already you can feel cracks in your charred skin. Bits of ash and charcoal, turning to powder and dust on the stagnant air. The puddles pooled along the side of the street and the water still dripping from power lines and window ledges seem like they’re mocking you. Water, water, everywhere. And you, choking on flame and soot. Skin scorched and burnt. Mouth dry and wanting for _something._ For _anything_ to soothe the fever burning within you.

You contemplate heading back to your apartment, where you can hide from the searing heat of the city within blank walls and the pleasant company of yourself. But the blood on your hands it too wet, to fresh, and you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts. The time spent meticulously cleaning your blade and clothes was spent with your ears ringing from the sound of screams and pleas for mercy. You can make yourself deaf to them at the time of the act, but when you’re leaving bloody fingerprints on your bathroom walls, and the smell of rust and salt wafts from your clothing like a bad case of b.o., the screams echo louder than ever.

If you go back, you’ll spend hours in the shower, scrubbing off every inch of your skin. Rubbing until you bleed, bathing until the hot water turns your skin pink, then red. Standing under the showerhead until the boiler gives out and your left with only the tepid water, then the cold. Left curled up and cringing as you try desperately to clean yourself with water that’s not hot enough. Not enough to scrub and wash and wipe away the blood.

You’re not ready for that lack of control. Not yet. Not when you’ve just returned.

So you’ll brave the heat, if to avoid your own hell for a bit longer.

You tell yourself that you will just walk about for a bit. Meld into the faceless crowd and lose yourself. Cities are very good for that, you think. You can’t stand remote places. Tiny villages and little towns. Where everyone knows everyone and there’s no mechanical whir humming constantly in the background. Silence is something you used to treasure. Something that allowed you to work quickly and diligently. Making codes and programs and new designs that you planned to build later. But you no longer have time for that, and silence is too loud for you to stand now.

_It’s been fourteen years…_

The thought comes unbidden, and you grit your teeth, your mind unconsciously breaking down the time into days, minutes, seconds. Time, flitting and wayward. It went so fast, before you could even realize or acknowledge it. One moment you were a kid, then you were a teenager, and now you’re a man.

But She’s still alive, and you’re still cleaning the blood of Her enemies off of your sword. 

You remember making calculations when you were thirteen. Formulating training schedules, factoring in time lost in missions, incorporating in as many variables as you could. You estimated that you would be ready when you were eighteen. That you could end this, and avenge your brother. Avenge everyone.

But the years drag on, and you are still not ready.

Your skin burns, and you can hear Her laughing at you.

You push yourself up from where you’re leaning on the wall, and adjust your jacket, pulling the collar up against the cooler night air. It’s getting late, and the last vestiges of sunlight have all but disappeared. The sky in the west is barely pink now, and has faded almost entirely into that deep, night blue.

You figure that Roxy’ll have just opened shop.

The decision to go and visit her bar comes after a few seconds of intense internal debate. _To stay away, or to not stay away?_ The result will be the same regardless. Trying to keep your distance in order to keep her safe would be more for your benefit, in truth. Something to ease your conscience. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, which you try to be, it doesn’t matter what you do anymore. Roxy will always remain a tool to be used against you, whether you avoid her or not.

Through years of youthful arrogance and a staggering amount of ignorance towards Her true capabilities, you have managed to dig yourself a hole so deep that it makes Marianas Trench look like a mousehole.

The walls of the hole are steady though, and not set to crumble onto your head just yet. You still have time to claw your way out.

You still have time to claw your way out.

You still have time to claw your way out.

_You still have time to claw your way out._

You walk towards Roxy’s bar and try not to drown in the fires of your own self-loathing.

//

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll have to step out for awhile this evening.”

Jane is washing the dishes, and you’ve stood up to dry them beside her.  You don’t want to be a burden. Mooching off of others was a habit you fell into in the early days of your traveling, but visits to some of the harsher climates of the world knocked it out of you. You know how to pull your weight now, and if there’s anyone whose hospitality you don’t want to take advantage of it’s Jane’s.

So you dry as she washes, and you watch her carefully as she speaks.

“I promised a friend of mine I’d go out with her,” she continues with a sigh and an exasperated shake of your head, turning the tap off as she places the last bowl into your hands. “I said she could pick the day, but I honestly didn’t expect her to call this morning out of the blue and demand I spend the evening at her bar. She’s stubborn, and told me that, ‘I have a cousin coming to stay with me from out of town’ was the lamest excuse she had ever heard.”

A light blush dusts her cheeks as she wipes her hands on a cloth, moving to sit down at her small kitchen table. You follow, watching her wipe the residual dampness off on her pale blue dress.

“It’s a bit my fault, I guess,” she admits, drumming her fingers on the table and looking at you apologetically, “I’ve made a habit of coming up with excuses to avoid going out with her. I’m not surprised that she doesn’t believe me.”

She laughs a little, nervous again, but looks at you anxiously, and you think that she believes you will be mad. Mad because it’s your first night here and she’s already leaving you alone.

You’re not mad. You know Jane isn’t like you. She has people, and a ‘place of her own’. A niche in this city. One that requires her to go out and be with those people of hers. You don’t begrudge her that.

But you can’t deny that you don’t much like the idea of spending your first night alone. The city is silent and too loud all at the same time. You’ve been in villages and towns before, but never this immense cacophony of ceaseless noise. The cars and the shouting and the honking that never stops. And the absolute lack of anything else. You can’t hear the birds, or the sound of swaying trees, and even the sound of the wind is muffled.

It’s stifling in the way that only silence can be, and frightening in a way unique to constant noise. 

“Would it be a horrible bother if I tagged along?” you ask, mirroring her nervous smile, “I don’t much mind the idea of getting out a bit. I’ve spent far too much time cooped up in various tin cans in my journey here. I can’t imagine a bit of fresh air would do me any harm. And your friend might be more apt to believe in my existence if she were to cast her own peepers upon me.”

You’re probably imposing, but you’d like to think that this friend of Jane’s is an amiable sort, and will enjoy getting to meet someone new. Jane seems more surprised then irritated by your proposition, and her expression melts into one of hesitant contemplation.

“I…suppose that would be alright,” she replies, a small smile beginning to creep across her face as she warms to the idea, “Yes…yes, I think I that would be lovely!”

Your smile broadens into a grin, and you beam at your cousin.

The two of you chat for a little while longer, Jane telling you about the friend that you’re going to meet, a lively woman by the name of Roxy, and you answering some of her questions about what you’ve been up to for the past decade or so. Filling in some of the gaps not covered by your online conversations.

After your bit of talking, Jane pops off to take a shower, and you wait on a couch by the window, looking out over the city. The rain has stopped, and the horrible gray canopy seems to have subsided, leaving the sky orange and red with the sun’s dying light. You’re a bit surprised by the reflections and colours that light up the buildings and streets now that the clouds have drifted away. The city still seems unbearably gray to you, the stone and the glass cold and unwelcoming, but the splashes of light that dance and reflect in the sunset reveal a new side to this frigid metropolis. It’s nice.

Something down at street level reflects red, and your eyes are drawn to it immediately, the flash of colour triggering something in your memory. Your mind travels back to that man you saw, his bright hair and vivid red earring the only source of colour that you can remember from your arrival this afternoon. You haven’t really thought of him since, but you think of him now, wondering why he, pale and dressed in black from head to toe, was the only one on that busy street who looked alive to you.

You’re prevented from musing upon it further by the sound of Jane exiting the shower and calling out to inform you that you’re free to take your own ablutions. All thoughts of the mysterious man are pushed aside as you hurry to get ready, not wanting to have Jane waiting for you when your accompanying her is already an inconvenience in itself.

The two of you are out of the house before the clock chimes eight, the sky that deep, purple blue, and the last traces of the sunset fading away behind the city skyline. Jane’s clad herself in a light blue and white checkered dress with a frill at the front, making you feel a bit underdressed in your plaid button-up and usual brown slacks. Your cousin assured you that your attire was perfectly acceptable for the outing planned, however, so you merely run a hand through your hair selfconsciously as she hails down a taxi, but don’t go back and change.

The taxi ride is uneventful, the driver not one of those amiable chaps who you can strike up a conversation with, despite your best efforts. Jane tries not to giggle at your failed attempts to get the sullen fellow to open up a bit, and she soon joins you in your game of ‘engage this cabbie chap in friendly banter’. You didn’t intend your actions to become a prank, but seeing some of the tension leave Jane’s shoulders as she joins you in teasing the driver spurs you onwards, and the sincerity of your comments towards him bleeds away. You feel a little bad, but not enough to cease your obnoxious remarks. And it _is_ fun coming up with ridiculous things to ask him in the hopes that he will respond to _something_.

The taxi drops you off with what must be considerable relief on his part, and you and Jane exit giggling like madmen. The little bit of tomfoolery lightens the mood considerably, and you and Jane walk towards the bar in high spirits, some of the awkwardness between you dissipating, and Jane’s cheeks flush with excitement as she warms to the idea of spending a night out with you and her good friend.

Your ride let you out a little higher up than is exactly convenient (not that you blame him), and you and Jane have to cover the rest of the distance to your destination on foot. Jane pulls her phone out to begin chatting with her friend over text, potentially informing her of your impending arrival, and you slip your hands into your pockets, tilting your head back and taking in the night sky.

It’s a lot different then the other night skies you’ve seen. No stars, for one thing, but you suppose it can’t be helped, what with all the smoggy mess a city as big as this one brings. The street is a little more open here, and the buildings aren’t so clustered together that it’s hard to see the bits of dark blue and gray cloud above. The night air is cool, and you close your eyes for a moment, taking in the atmosphere of the place that you’re going to be calling ‘home’.

It doesn’t take the two of you long to reach the bar where you’re meeting Jane’s friend, and you eye the establishment up and down as Jane slides her phone back into her purse. It’s a bit on the small side, though easy to spot thanks to the flamboyant pink sign hanging above the door. The words ‘ _Vodka Mutini’_ flash brightly in the evening light, and you attempt to peer over Jane’s shoulder through the window of the establishment as she knocks on the door.

You wonder what type of person this friend of Jane’s is. You don’t know much about her, other than that her name is Roxy, she owns a bar, she can be a bit stubborn and pushy, but according to your cousin, is the kindest person you could ever hope to meet. The two of you wait for a few moments, Jane with her hands fiddling together, casting nervous glances at you, and you rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet.

Finally, the door to the establishment is pulled open, and you hear a delighted squeal before a blur of purple and brown and blonde launches itself at your cousin, pulling her into a tight embrace. Jane makes a surprised sound, staggering back a few steps under the weight of the woman’s onslaught, and you move behind her, bracing your hands upon her back to stop her from falling over.

“Jaaaaaney!” squeals the woman-who-is-probably-Roxy, hanging onto your cousin’s arm and standing before her with a wide grin on her face, “Holy shit girl, you’re early! See, and you wanted to squirm your way outta this, but I knew you wanted to come.” Roxy winks broadly with that comment, and Jane sighs heavily, a small smile on her face as she regards her friend with a kind of exasperated fondness.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to come, Roxy,” replies Jane with a rueful shake of her head, “ _Like I told you_ , I have company.”

As Jane’s gaze slides over to you, Roxy’s follows, and you’re surprised to see that her eyes are a startling shade of hot pink. Her gaze is intense as all bollocks, and you jump a little as her eyes narrow and she concentrates all her attention on you.

“And…who’s this?” she asks, her eyes still narrowed as she tilts her head to the side. There’s still a smile on her face, but there’s something subtly dangerous in her tone, and you have to fight against the urge to take a step back. You smile nervously instead, flashing her your brightest grin.

“This is my cousin, Jake,” says Jane, introducing you as you extend a hand outwards to shake. “As you can see, he’s quite real, like I told you, several times.” Your cousin looks just a bit smug with that comment, and Roxy looks a little bashful, smiling awkwardly as she takes your extended hand.

“Well damn, guess you weren’t just trying to get out of a night out on the town!” she giggles merrily, her hearty shake of your hand taking you by surprise as she pumps your arm up and down, “So that means you really _are_ tagging along for the night and Janey wasn’t just pulling my leg with those texts?”

“Quite so!” you reply with a laugh of your own, glad when your arm is released from Roxy’s strong grip, “Jake English, at your service!”

With another laugh, Roxy steps aside, allowing Jane and yourself to enter into the bar.

It’s a nice establishment, not as flashy as the pink, glittery sign would lead you to believe, but warm, with plush chairs and couches, and dim lighting. There are three large televisions in different places around the bar, all of them turned off. Your eyes drift around the room casually, before movement near the back catches your gaze, and you notice, for the first time, a person standing in the shadows.

You freeze.

Even with his entire form encased in shadows, the pointed glasses and gleaming red earring are unmistakable. Against all odds, it’s the man you saw earlier. The blonde who was all white and black and somehow the most colourful thing in the entire cityscape. The person who you can’t seem to keep your eyes off of, whose gaze you try to catch through the thick shades between the two of you, whose body you move towards unconsciously, your feet carrying you deeper into the bar. You have to get closer, you have to- to speak to him. You don’t know why, you just do. This monochrome man of colour who you’ve spotted twice in half a day.

Just who _is_ he?

//

“You were gone longer than usual this time.”

She’s not looking at you,  scrolling through her phone with her cheek resting in her other hand and your body angled slightly to the side. She looks the same as she always does, if, perhaps, a bit more distant than usual. Her bar is closed, empty save for the two of you, and it’s obvious by the nice purple dress she’s wearing and the lengths she’s gone to do her makeup that she’s going out tonight. That she has somewhere else to be.

You’re probably intruding, maybe annoying her a bit, but if she wanted you to leave, she would tell you. Whereever she has to be, it’s obvious that it will be some time before she has to be there.

“The job took longer than usual,” you say emotionlessly, sipping from the glass of orange soda she poured you. Alcohol isn’t something you ever let near your system, and after a particularly disastrous night when Roxy tried to spike your drink at age sixteen, she knows never to try and pressure you into it. You need to be alert at all times, because She is slippery and unpredictable, and you never know when to expect an attack, or a summons.

Roxy looks up at you after your reply, and her eyes are troubled, unusually sharp with the apparent lack of alcohol in her system. Her lips are pinched, and it looks like she really, really wants to tell you off.

But neither of you are kids anymore, and Roxy knows arguing against what you do is useless. She’s been in the mess for almost as long as you have. Thirteen years to your fourteen. But she’s less entangled in the Witch’s strings than you are. You used to bitch at her for her addiction to alcohol but the truth is she’s got a better handle on her life than you do. She’s on the outer edge of the Witch’s web, only as close as she needs to be in order to keep you in line. Roxy is essentially free to do as she pleases, so long as she doesn’t try to leave the city.

She turns away from you with a discontented noise, leaning back in her chair with a pout on her face.

“It’s all work with you; you’re no fun, Dirk,” she huffs, her tone all exaggerated irritation, “You didn’t even tell me when you were leaving. And then you didn’t tell me when you were coming back! _Laaaaame._ ”

She turns her head back towards you, her eyes narrowed and her mouth still in a pout as she waggles her phone back and forth in front of you.

“Well, sucks to be you, ‘cause I can’t sit and chat today. I gotta girlie coming over and we’re going to hit up the town and have all the boyos swoonin’,” she drawls with a wink, face breaking out into a grin.

You let yourself smirk a little. Roxy is good at pretending, better than you anyways. She’s probably furious with you, she always seems to be, but she knows that you came here to pretend yourself. To immerse yourself in a small illusion of normalcy, of a decent life, where you have friends that you can chat with casually at a bar. And she’ll humour you, whatever she thinks about your situation, your motives, or your stubborn refusal to attempt to change the direction you’re headed.

Roxy really is an amazing person. She doesn’t deserve to be trapped in this shitty life with you. You know that she would probably be dead if she wasn’t being used as blackmail against you, but that doesn’t lessen the amount of guilt you feel.

As usual, Roxy’s able to sense when your thoughts start going down hill, even though your expression doesn’t change outwardly. Her smile fades in intensity, and her mouth pinches into a thin line, her hand lowering as places her phone back on the table.

She looks like she’s about to say something, and you tense, not sure if she’s going to revive her old practice of bitching at you about your life choices.

She never gets a chance to, however, because at that moment there’s a knock on the front door, and both of your heads whip around to see.

Your mind whirs, a thousand and one scenarios playing out in a ceasless slideshow through your brain. What’s the probability that the person at the door is working for Her? What’s the probability that you or Roxy or both are about to get dragged off to Her underwater villa by your ears? You replay the events of the day in your head, trying to figure out where and when you might have done something to offend her. Something to make her think she had to come here and disrupt your pathetic illusion of normalcy, and put you back in your place.

Beside you, Roxy sucks in a breath sharply and you imagine the same thoughts are going through her mind. But she doesn’t freeze up, or hop behind the bar counter for the rifle that she keeps there. Instead, she gets to her feet, walking towards the door and giving you a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she does.

“Relax,” she breathes, looking down at you with a somewhat tired look in her eyes, “It’s just my date for this evening.”

You don’t relax, not completely anyway, but you don’t make a move as Roxy continues walking towards the door, your head slowly turning to follow her movements. You tense up again she unlocks and pulls the door open, and release the tension only when you hear Roxy release a delighted squeal and see her throw her arms around someone with delight.

It’s her friend after all.

It’s a relief, but also a disappointment. You’re not disillusioned with your own selfishness, and the fact that Roxy’s friend is here means it’s time for you to hit the road. The visit was far shorter than you would have liked, and all the thoughts and feelings that you were trying to suppress swim just below the surface of your brain, threatening to emerge at the slightest inclination.

But it’s not Roxy’s job to be your mental mind block, and you love the fact that she can go out with friends. So you turn away, and get to your feet,

“And…who’s this?”

You freeze.

That’s Roxy asking. Roxy asking ‘who’s this’. Meaning there’s someone there that she doesn’t know. Meaning that it wasn’t just her friend at the door.

You’re automatically on high-alert, and your entire body tenses up, hand twitching towards the sword that’s no longer slung across your back. You slowly turn your head to the side, looking over your shoulder from behind your glasses.

The two newcomers are a man and a woman, both slightly Asian in features, with tousled black hair. Roxy is hanging on the woman’s arm, and you quickly surmise that that must be her ‘girlie’. Leaving the man to be the foreign element. The outlier. The one that Roxy doesn’t recognize.

You transfer your gaze to him.

Strangely enough, your first thought when you look at him is ‘sunshine’. It comes out of nowhere, and is so random and illogical that it leaves your brain floundering for a few milliseconds, before you push the thought away and assess his appearance more critically. Male. Probably in early twenties. Possibly from a region of Asia. Maybe India or China, as he has features characteristic of both. You can’t tell the exact colour of his eyes in the dim lighting of the bar, though you suppose it doesn’t really matter in the long run. He’s well-muscled, which automatically ups your alert level, and has a thick accent, which ups your suspicion again.

But at the same time, if this guy is a spy, or one of Her agents, he is a _damn_ good actor. He’s all bright grins and deep laughter as he introduces himself to Roxy. His body language is completely non-threatening, even as he waves his arms about and gestures wildly as he speaks. Furthermore, it doesn’t look he’s aware of your existence at all.

It _could_ be acting, but…you’re inclined to dismiss your paranoia in this instance, and classify the man as not a threat. Besides, he’s apparently the cousin of Roxy’s friend, which is a decent alibi, as opposed to a new boyfriend or work colleague. 

Satisfied, you begin turning away from the door, intent on heading out through the backdoor and leaving Roxy to her evening of normalcy.

Then, he turns his eyes on you.

You don’t think you could live with yourself if you described the situation with something as cliché as ‘the world stood still’, but in that moment, it does seem like everything grinds to a stop around you. Just for an instance, your mind goes blank of all of the things that usually trouble it, and your entire world narrows to the scope of the vibrant green eyes boring into you.

You get the unmistakable feeling that you’ve felt this gaze before, felt those eyes on you before, and you immediately shake off whatever weirdly euphoric feeling had settled over you, bristling up like a cat.

Who _is_ he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to put this in the note for the first chapter, but I guess I forgot. 
> 
> What this story basically is is me trying to capture 'soulmates' in a fanfiction without wanting to throw myself out a window. Because you see, I love the idea of soulmates. But I hate hate hate in fanfiction where two people see each other and fall madly in love after talking like twice. It's really common, especially in Highschool AUs, where the characters will literally hang out twice and then start throwing around the 'L' word. 
> 
> But still, I love the idea of soulmates. So I guess, this is me kind of trying to write a 'destined to be together' story that I myself wouldn't mind reading? And the way I'm approaching it is by making it the focal point. If that makes sense. It doesn't really. Um. Basically I'm making it really obvious that they are being pulled together by forces out of their control in the hopes that that somehow makes the concept less cheesy. 
> 
> Well, we'll see how this works. Do tell me your thoughts as the fic continues on!


	3. Eulogy (Part 3)

When you were a child, your grandma used to send you to sleep by telling you fantastical stories, of faraway lands and heroic deeds and adventures. She’d lull you with tales of princes and knights, of wizards and mages, of the forces of good triumphing over the forces of evil, and of happily ever after being an ending that could always be reached with time.

Her stories almost always revolved around fighting for victory with bravery, cunning, and guts at the forefront. But every so often, she’d read you a legend of romance. An account of true love, of two people destined to be with one another. Of a man and a woman who caught each other’s eye from across a crowded ballroom, who bumped into each other in a magical forest, who were born to be with one another.

You’ve long since stopped believing in fairytales and the conventions they uphold, but when that man’s odd glasses slip down on his nose, and your eyes meet his directly, your first thought is, _This is it._

_This is what they were talking about._

_This feeling, right here._

You can’t explain it, can’t even begin to put it into words, can’t get your tongue to work in order to hail out a greeting, to talk to him.

However, your feet seem to be in better working order, and they carry you towards him fluidly, the rest of you barely aware of anything else as the distance between you and the man shrinks rapidly.

You’re just barely aware of Jane saying you name inquisitively, wondering what you’re doing, where you’re going, but you can’t entertain her questions right now, because you yourself don’t know what the devil is going on. What in the name of flying goosefeathers _do_ you think you’re doing?

By the time you’ve stopped, a few feet in front of him, he’s readjusted his glasses so that his eyes are once again hidden from view. You’re immediately saddened, because you didn’t quite catch what colour they were from across the room. You wonder what prompts him to wear such ostentatious sunglasses? And inside!

“Can I help you with something?” his first words to you are almost a growl, and you’re somewhat startled by the harshness of his tone. His words are sharp, like his glasses, his hair, his angular face and pointed body. He has edges everywhere, and you wonder if he was always like this, so jagged that anyone would be afraid to touch him, to get close.

But the fear you feel is second place to that feeling of _something else_ that pervaded you when you saw his eyes just now. Or really, when you caught that glance of him this morning. When you saw him as the only splash of colour in the entire gray landscape. This feeling that’s making your chest constrict and your breath quicken.

Your imagination runs away from you, and you envision a scene in which a young page bumps into a young prince in a courtyard. An accidental meeting between two completely different boys. You imagine their eyes meeting, the world stopping, and the fairytale beginning with that first promise of _love at first sight._

You take a cautious step forward.

“Hello there, chap!” You say amiably, grinning in a somewhat lopsided manner, “Couldn’t help noticing you lurking about back here, and I thought I’d introduce myself. My name’s Jake English! I’ve just come to town, so I’m afraid I don’t know much of anything about this place and its people. Are you an associate of Miss Roxy?”

His face is a mask, cold and stony, and you can’t read a single thing off of him. The only sign of movement, of thought, is a single muscle working in his jaw, and you wonder what’s got him so tightly wound that he can’t even respond to your simple question and introduce himself.

You don’t falter, however. You keep your pleasant grin on and wait patiently for his answer. You think it unnerves him, after a few seconds of you just standing there smiling, because his cold look falters a little, and brief expression of surprise flickers across his face. The look causes you to chuckle quietly, and your grin fades into a smile.

“Yup, I can wait!” you say pleasantly, “I really want to get to know you, for some reason, so I’ll be patient about it.”

And that _is_ true. You can’t seem to shake this all-consuming feeling. This _something_ that fills your body whenever you look at him, or are close to him. There is an event occurring here that can’t quite be explained, something fantastical that you never believed could occur in reality, and you want to follow it through. You want to see where it takes you. You also really, really want to know who this man is.

And cold and silent though he may be, he hasn’t left yet. He’s still standing here, looking conflicted and unnerved. And you think, perhaps, just maybe, he feels it to.

“Hahaha, wow Jane, your cuz really knows how to pick ‘em, huh?”

The bubble that seemed to have enveloped the two of you pops and dissipates as Roxy’s voice echoes around the mostly empty bar. You feel an arm thrown around your shoulder, and your eyes are snapped away from the man as Roxy comes up beside you.

“This dude here was just leaving, he’s a pretty busy guy,” she says with a goodnatured wink. You’re just about to tell her that you’re reasonably sure that he can speak for himself when her expression hardens and she hisses, “Just leave him alone.”

_That_ takes you aback, and you pull away from her, turning towards the man with a questioning look on your face.

Your heart sinks, because the mask is back, stonier than ever. His face looks like a chunk of ice, and you feel like a wall has gone up- which is ridiculous because you’ve barely exchanged words- and you’ve been shut out suddenly. You’re caught off guard, winded. You didn’t expect it. _This_ , whatever _this_ is, is not supposed to end in this fashion.

You want to say something, _anything,_ to stop him from turning, from his face being replaced with the back of his head, to stop him walking away.

But he does turn, and you lose sight of that face, and you can only watch as his back retreats into the shadows of the bar, disappearing through a back door.

Your feet move again, of their own accord, trying to go after him, but Roxy’s hand grips firmly on your forearm, and you turn towards her angrily, a sharp retort ready on your tongue.

Her face stops you though. It’s a face that looks far too tired all of a sudden, far too worn out. Roxy’s lips are pressed in a thin line, and even with her dark complexion, she looks pale.

“Don’t get involved with him,” she says quietly, but forcefully, “You’ll regret it.”

With that, she releases your arm and turns to face where your cousin is standing, concerned and confused, by the door. Roxy laughs away the awkwardness in the air, bounding towards Jane with a grin and taking her by the hand to lead her to the bar counter. She brushes off your cousin’s questions, and grins in the face of the concerned looks that Jane shoots in your direction.

You don’t know what to do or say. The feeling that’s consuming you is reminiscent of being charged into by a rhinoceros, of having a horn plunge into your chest and dig everything out. You feel overwhelmed, and like the entire world has shifted under your feet. Something momentous seems to have happened, but you let it pass you by, instead of seizing it and holding on tightly.

“Jake?”

That’s Jane’s voice behind you. Jane’s hand that’s placed cautiously on your back. Your dear cousin. The fairytale bleeds out of you, your mind drifts away from the imaginary courtyard, with the imaginary prince’s back fading away into the distance, and you turn your head to face her.

“…Sorry about that!” you say, after a moment’s hesitation, “Not quite sure what came over me there! Hehe, I guess I’m just really bloody desperate to meet new people.”

Jane doesn’t look convinced, but she acquiesces to your reassurances, returning to the bar counter to take a sip from the drink that Roxy’s poured her. You accept your drink without meeting Roxy’s eye, feeling uncharacteristically enraged at the woman you’ve only just met. Because you feel, deep in your bones and your soul and your heart, that she stopped something that wasn’t meant to be stopped. Something that should have been allowed to continue.

For the rest of the night, your mind is stuck on that feeling of loss and incompleteness.

//

Your disgust with yourself is palpable, and lingers with you throughout the night, following you back to the apartment, and clinging tightly to you into the next morning. Your bed remains untouched, and you wait for sunrise with your cheek pressed against the cold wood of your desk, watching the sky go from black, to purple, to blue through the crack underneath the blinds. On days when you return from missions, you usually _attempt_ to conquer your insomnia and get a few hours of rest, but the events of the previous night have left your mind an unceasing, whirring, mess, and you clench and unclench your hands, angry and caught of guard by your actions, and unable to successfully decode them.

Why did you stay and let him talk to you? Why didn’t you ignore him and continue to leave, like you had planned to?

_Because something in his eyes caught you,_ your mind concludes treacherously, _something in his smile, and in his voice, and in his presence._

The memories pop up to back the conclusion your mind has reached, the way your chest clenched when you met his gaze, the way the world seemed to stop, the way you couldn’t help but listen to his words. The way all your suspicions seemed trivial, inapplicable, in his presence.

It’s nauseating, and frightening, that loss of control. That inability to understand your own thoughts and feelings in the presence of this one person. And it fills you with a deep, deep self-loathing to remember that Roxy had to kick you out. That you didn’t leave of your own volition. That you forgot, even just for a moment, that you’re not allowed in that world. Until you defeat Her, you’re not allowed to taint Roxy’s world of faux normalcy with your presence. It’s hers. Those are her friends, who have nothing to do with you or your bloodstained hands, and you should always, always keep it that way. It’s the only thing you have left that you can give to your old friend. The only thing.

You hate yourself for almost talking to him. You hate yourself for wanting to talk to him. You have no right. No fucking right. Not when he’s not involved. Not when he’s innocent.

But is he innocent? That’s also a question you can’t quite figure out the answer to you. His sudden appearance is suspicious, the way he went straight for you is suspicious, the way he was undeterred by your belligerent demeanor is suspicious. Why would he make such an effort to speak with you, if he wasn’t a spy of some sort?

But your gut tells you no. Something deep inside of you tells you no. And your head and instincts have always been in perfect sync, so to have them telling you two separate things is disorienting and frightening.

You should stay away from him.

That’s the most logical conclusion that you can draw from this situation. You know nothing about the man, save for his name (which could be fake), and his supposed connection to a friend of Roxy’s. His motives in speaking with you are unclear, and your own reaction to his presence is alarming. You’ve never had such a lack of control. A situation where all your actions weren’t careful and measured. Precise, and infallible. Instead, you were startled, and acted without any logical backing.

There is something about that man that is disruptive to your very makeup, and you should, without a doubt stay away from him.

The decision is made, and you peel yourself off your desk, shaking aside the feelings of uncertainty that are plaguing you. Pushing back that gaping, empty feeling that has suddenly opened up in your stomach, and brushing away the deep throb that has begun to pulse within your chest.

You can’t afford to have the foundations that you’ve built for yourself shaken. You can’t afford for any outlier, any unknown variable, to suddenly insert itself into the equation. You don’t have the fucking time.

So you push thoughts of Jake English out of your head, somewhat consoled by the realization that the chances of the two of you running into each other again are slim to none. The only thing connection you to him is Roxy, and the guilt from last night’s fiasco will keep you away from her for awhile. No, you don’t have to worry about avoiding him. Because in all likelihood, the differences in your lifestyles and the size of the city will stop you guys from meeting again.

Satisfied that the problem has been, for all purposes, solved, you push the issue from your mind, and settle down into your daily schedule, beginning with sword exercises on the roof. You can’t lose your focus. You have to be ready to strike at a moment’s notice, whenever a weakness reveals itself, whenever your strategizing and fighting finally becomes strong enough to defeat hers. You have to be ready. You _cannot_ get distracted.

You stubbornly ignore the insistent throbbing in your chest, and the way you see vivid green whenever your eyelids are shut. 


	4. Eulogy (Part 4)

When you were a kid, your brother used to tell you stories about heroes. Brave knights, whose loyalty to their kingdom made their hearts strong and their power unmatched in battle. Princesses with an immense aptitude for magic, easily crushing all evildoers and bringing peace to the land. Boys and girls, beating the odds and standing up for what they knew to be right.

In retrospect, he was probably being the overdramatic windbag that he was, and smugly hinting at his own life as the frontline opposition against the ever-expending Crockercorp. He was most likely feeding you those stories so that one day, when you were finally old enough to understand the true message behind his movies and comics, you’d see him as a hero, just like in those fantastic tales he used to tell.

You don’t.

You think he was a fool. You _know_ he was a fool. Because he died. He died horribly and painfully and his blood splattered all over the walls and the floor and those stupid sunglasses he always wore cracked and shattered and there was nothing ironic about watching your brother get sliced to pieces.

And it was such a predictable outcome. Something he should have seen coming. If he expected the public to see the subversive messages in his films, how could he not expect Her to see the same? Not expect her to react? To retaliate? Did he really think he could stop her with a bunch of dumb films, without suffering any consequences?

Your brother was a fool.

But you’re not. You can’t afford to be. You’ve been given a chance. An opportunity to dethrone the self-titled Empress and crumble her empire. A chance to right all the wrongs that have been done. A chance to avenge your brother, and Roxy’s mom.

All you have to do is kill Meenah Peixes.

That’s it, nothing else. You kill her, and everything she’s built erodes away into nothing. All the pain she’s caused is paid back and full, and everyone she’s hurt, everyone that she’s sunk her claws into, will be free. Roxy will be free. _You_ will be free.

The deal she made with you is simple. If you worked for her, she would give you one chance. One unimpeded chance to kill her. To come at her with everything you had and attempt to end her life. There would be no guards or henchmen. No security. Just you and her, in a fight to the death. One chance.

She made the deal for two reasons. Reason number 1: she was bored. All her opposition was crushed, and ruling was tedious when you already had complete power and no one to contest it. She wanted a challenge. Something unpredictable that would disturb the monotony of her life at the top of the food chain.

Reason number 2: she needed an assassin. Someone who could do the company’s dirty work in a discrete manner. The loyalty of the Midnight Crew was too fickle for her to depend upon, so she wanted someone that she could hold firmly in place, and not worry about them rebelling or causing trouble. She wanted you.

And she got you. Because how could you say no? It was either that or be killed right then and there, with no chance of avenging your brother or destroying the woman’s iron hold on the world.

So this is the position you are in now. You are your sworn enemy’s top assassin. You are trapped in a deep hole of bitter, backwards irony with only one opportunity to pull yourself out. And you absolutely cannot afford to mess up. You will not be the fool. You will not die a meaningless death, with Her laughing over your corpse. You will _not._ You will plan your attack down to the last detail. Make sure that you’re strong enough to combat her. Leave no openings that she could exploit.

Because you’re not the only one. Oh no. She has offered this choice, this opportunity, to many others. And, without fail, she has killed each and every one of them in combat. There are no videos of the battles, no way for you to study Her technique, and discover how she manages to defeat them all without fail. Instead, you learn about the people who challenged her. The assassins who came before you. You study _their_ fighting styles, look for the flaws, the weaknesses. Try to understand the mistakes they could have made, so that you don’t do the same.

And you train. You train every day.

You can’t devote as much time to research and analyzing as you would like to. She makes sure to keep you really fucking busy. Your missions are frequent, and often far away and long. If you’re lucky, the recon work, the information about the target’s schedule and daily habits, will be already compiled for you. But more often, you’re left to do all the intelligence gathering yourself. You are away for months on end, with no time to pursue your own research into the Condescension’s past opponents, and no time to plan.

So the downtime between missions that you have is critical. You have to maximize every spare moment, in the hopes that you will be strong enough, and have enough information before She sends you on another mission, before you have to kill in her name _again._

Today is your first full day back, and you intend to use every second to your benefit. You’re tired of this. You’re tired of coming back to this too-hot city and being forced to live under her thumb. Forced to do her bidding, and continue to be a part of the machine that has destroyed so many lives. More than anything, you want this to end. You want the mission that you just returned from to be the last one. You want the next person that you sword runs through to be the ‘Empress’ herself.

Unfortunately, the normal setbacks of being human prevent you from starting off strong. Your fridge is empty, and you didn’t have a chance to stock up on non-perishables before you left. Your coffee maker is broken, the sleepless night after a long mission is making your eyes heavy, and your mind is nowhere near as sharp as it needs to be. Before you can start anything, you need to stack up on supplies and instant coffee so that you have no further need to leave your apartment.

So at around half past 7 in the morning, you pull on a jacket and head out into the city, going for the one coffee shop you know that caters to early morning patrons like yourself. The man who works the counter in the morning isn’t chatty, and the establishment is in a secluded location, meaning you don’t have to spend the entire time looking over your shoulder. You hate crowded areas, because there is a 90% chance that mixed into the mass of people are spies for Her. It’s so much easier in small, empty coffee shops that are off the radar. You can almost pretend that you’re safe there. Almost.

The shop is predictably empty when you enter, and the only acknowledgement from the counter boy is a single raised eyebrow, before he turns and begins to make your drink. Your nerves always twinge at that, because having a fixed pattern is never a good thing. Habits that people can use to track and identify you by. If someone recognizes your patterns, it means they can recognize _you,_ and you prefer to be invisible at all costs. You want to be able to melt back into the crowd. You can’t do that if this man has seen you enough times to know what coffee to make just by catching sight of you.

You begrudgingly make the decision not to come back to this coffeeshop again, and pay the man without a word as he passes you your drink. From here, you should exit immediately and go out into the city. But you’re still not alert, your mind fogged from the lack of sleep straight after a strenuous mission. So you take a seat instead, deciding to drink your coffee and let the caffeine kick in before heading out into the streets full of potential spies and enemies.

The booth you slide into is comfortable, and your eyes slip closed as you breathe out a heavy sigh. You really wish you had slept last night. This is an absolute shit way to start off your time in the city. You feel as if you’re working at 60% efficiency, and it sets all your nerves on edge to be out of your apartment and vulnerable when you’re not at the top of your game.

You’re just in the middle of considering whether or not to put off grocery shopping for another day, when you hear the door open.

Your eyes automatically fly open and dart towards the entrance, your body tensing as you prepare to assess the threat level of the new ‘customer’.

And then you freeze.

//

The idea of ‘fate’ and ‘destiny’ has always simultaneously excited and terrified you. You have always adored the concept of having a fixed role that only you can fill. A purpose unique to you, which no other person can take. You also love the idea of soulmates. Of two people destined to be with one another. Destined to meet. Destined to fall in love. Destined to spend eternity in each other’s arms.

But at the same time, the idea of fate terrifies you. A fixed road that you cannot deviate from. A predetermined ending that, no matter how horrid, is inescapable. Because it’s not set in stone that whatever story you’ve been written into has a happy ending.

However, as you walk into the nondescript little coffeeshop and catch sight of that same man with the odd glasses, you are 100 percent certain that, for this story, fate is on your side. And that the path you are being led down is going to end in something miraculous, for the both of you.

Because, really, what are the chances? You and Jane returned to her apartment at a rather obscene hour, both of you exhausted and tipsy, and you couldn’t have gotten more than four hours of sleep before your internal clock woke you up with the sunrise. In any other scenario, you certainly would have gone back to sleep, or at least stayed in the apartment until your hangover subsided. But this morning, you felt compelled to leave. Compelled to go out into the city even before the sun had risen fully above the horizon.

And so you did, downing a few glasses of water to clear your head before leaving a note for Jane and heading out.

Even with everything cast in orange and pink hues from the rising sun, you found the city grey and subdued. You just couldn’t find it in you to warm up to the endless skyscrapers and cold asphalt. The glass and steel were as unwelcoming and frigid as you had found it the day before. Regardless, there was something captivating about the jungle of glass and concrete, so different from all of your previous experiences. You found yourself enjoying your walk, reveling in the new environment, and just flowing along with the consistent stream of people along the sidewalks. 

You were pleasantly surprised when your aimless travels took you to a small coffee shop, hidden in some unassuming nook between buildings, off of the main road and in a little side street. It reminded you of some of the small stores that you would find in the cities of old Europe, and feelings of nostalgia arose within you. You were drawn to this little beacon of familiarity, and decided to enter. 

And he was there.

  
You're still not entirely sure whom this peculiar man with the pointed glasses is, but it's clear that the two of you are meant to meet, for reasons you’re still unclear of. Your mind automatically returns to the path it was traversing the night prior. To that fairy tale story with the prince and the page that you conjured up. Your cheeks immediately flush with colour, and you push the thought aside. Goodness, just what are your intentions towards this fellow? You don't even know his name, and you’re casting him as your leading lady in the fantastical tale you are spinning in your head.

  
Your thoughts are in a flurry, and you're just standing awkwardly at the door, both of you staring at one another. He looks...

Well, for lack of a better term, he looks stricken. As stricken as someone with their eyes covered can look. His hand is clutching at his cup with a death like grip, and his jaw seems tight. He looks no more amiable then he did when you parted ways the night prior, and is acting like you are quite possibly the most horrifying thing he’s ever seen in his life.

His reaction is a little disheartening, but you are _determined_ to pursue this. To chase after whatever it is that is drawing you to this man. You’re not willing to let him walk away from you again, not when the story has only just begun. Not when you don’t even know his name.

He looks like he wants to run. Like he wants to be anywhere but here. Like he doesn’t want to confront or chase after this fantastical thing that is enveloping the both of you. But that won’t do. No, not at all!

So you walk across the floor of the little coffeshop with purposeful strides, a smile making its way onto your face as you stop a few steps away from his booth, maintaining your sunny disposition even in the face of his clenched jaw and stony expression.

“See now,” you say with a slight laugh, leaning back on your heels with your hands tucked into your pockets, “This is fate, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t look impressed, and his jaw tightens further. You see his shoulders tense, his entire body tense, and even though his eyes are covered, you can see the conflict within him. See him trying to decide what to do, how to respond.

“I don’t believe in fate,” is the response he decides upon, his expression remaining flat and cold, “Or coincidences. If you’re not even going to bother concealing yourself when you follow me, you might as well reveal your intentions.”

You startle a bit, your expression morphing into one of utter surprise.

“I-intentions? I-good heavens, I haven’t been stalking you! What a preposterous accusation! I don’t even know you! What reason would I have to follow you around?”

Sheepishly, you rub the back of your head, shifting all of your weight onto one leg. “Though I’ll admit, I am quite interested in you. I mean, I was interested in you from the second I caught a glance of you in the street, and then again when I saw you in the bar…we ran into each other twice in less than a day, and you’re so mysterious with those odd glasses! Can you blame me for being curious?” you laugh nervously.

He seems to hesitate, his stony exterior flickering for half a second. His eyebrows knit together, and you find yourself holding your breath, wondering how he’s going to respond.

“I don’t remember seeing you on the street,” he says finally, and, oh dear, his back is up now. This mysterious fellow reminds you an awful lot of some of the wild animals you used to meet back on your island. Suspicious, easily perturbed, and likely to switch into fight or flight mode at the drop of a hat. He hasn’t run from you yet, nor has he attacked you, but you get the distinct feeling that the moment isn’t too far off.

“It was just a glimpse, you walked by me as I was waiting for my bus,” you say a bit nervously, still maintaining your sheepish grin, “But you stood out to me, and I was really excited when I saw you again in that bar! I just want-,”

“Stop.”

Your speech splutters to a halt, and your grin falters. A chill runs down your spine, and your stomach sinks as the man places both hands on the table and gets to his feet, looking down at you with what you could only describe as an expression of cold fury.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he continues lowly, his voice almost a growl, “but I don’t appreciate being stalked by some guy I don’t know. It doesn’t matter if you have the purest fucking intentions. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, so do me a favour and stay the fuck away.”

“B-but,” you flounder for a second, taking a step backwards as you positively wilt under his fearsome expression. “B-but you feel it too, don’t you?”

He freezes.

For just a moment, all traces of anger vanish from his face, leaving him with a startled, somewhat alarmed expression. Now it’s _his_ turn to take a step back, and your confidence rushes back, just as he replaces that cold mask and turns his face away from you.

“You’re fucking delusional,” he growls lowly, “Just leave me-,”

“Look we-we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” you interject hastily, holding up your hands in a placating manner, “I just- I just really want to have a word! Just a little one! I mean, there’s clearly- there’s definitely _something_ happening. And you can’t even deny it because you absolutely feel it as well. I _know_ you do.”

He stiffens, and whatever retort he had ready appears to die in his mouth. But you see his hands ball up into fists and you hop backwards nervously, feeling distinctly like if you push him too much further you’re going to end up with severe damage to your person.

“We can just discuss unimportant things!” You squeak out, “Things like our thoughts on the weather, our favourite colours, our favourite activities, that sort of thing! Get to know one another without exchanging any personal information. And it doesn’t have to be for long. Just-just until you finish your coffee! Then, if you want, we can go our separate ways, and never engage in conversation again!”

That’s probably a lie. Something in your chest aches at the thought of him walking away without so much as giving you his name, and you don’t know if you could truly let him go. Which is scary, because you know nothing about him. It really is a terrifying thing to be caught in the hold of something much bigger than you. When, regardless of your own wishes, you are swept along by something all-consuming. Something relentlessly pounding away at your common sense and self-preservation. Something like fate, or destiny.

You’re reassured, however, by the fact that the gentleman before you is certainly in the same boat. Why would he still be here otherwise? _You_ certainly wouldn’t stay to bandy words with a strange man who, for all appearances, seems to be a stalker. And this fellow doesn’t look like the type to tolerate anyone invading his space. But here he is, considering your suggestion, and you just know he’s caught in the vortex of whatever wonderful story fate has in store for the both of you.

It’s exciting, and nervewracking. Your heart beats loudly and you bite anxiously at your bottom lip as you wait for him to give you his answer.

//

“Fine.”

The word slips out before you can even fully register it, and it’s only when the fool’s face lights up and he slides into the booth across from you that you realize that you agreed to his idiotic suggestion. The ensuing panic leaves you frozen on your feet, staring at the grinning buffoon now sitting triumphantly across from you, until said buffoon gives you an inquiring look, and asks if you’re going to stay standing the entire time.

Your mouth actually drops down into a scowl for half a second, before you slam your poker face back on and slowly sit back down, muscles tense and coiled tight. You can’t believe this. There is literally no good reason for you to be sitting here, and not marching out of the shop and losing this imbecile in the crowds. Honestly, the coffee isn’t fucking worth it. It’s not fucking worth the chance you’re taking, just sitting here and talking, when it’s so goddamn likely that he’s one of her spies.

(A stupid, irrational voice at the back of your mind murmurs that there’s no way he could be a spy. _Not him_. You mercilessly squash that voice down because it has no evidence and no justification to back up its claims. Nothing besides the weird fluttery feeling in your stomach that you just can’t seem to get rid of.)

Regardless, you remain where you are, wishing your coffee wasn’t so goddamned hot so you could just gulp it down instead of sipping at it, and glaring at the tenacious moron across from you.

“Well then…” begins the man hesitantly, coughing a bit as red dusts his cheeks and he rubs at the back of his head, “I…suppose I’ll start with an introduction? I mean, I introduced myself last night, but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m Jake English!”

You sip at your coffee dispassionately, and raise an eyebrow at his zealous introduction.

“I thought this ‘conversation’ was going to focus on non-personal information,” you reply flatly, and you almost smirk at the sudden expression of panic and spluttering backtracking that ‘English’ does.

“Well- I mean- that doesn’t really count! Since I told you yesterday!” he says hurriedly, his face the colour of a tomato, “And you don’t have to say anything in response! I just…wanted to introduce myself.”

You maintain your unimpressed expression, and he coughs nervously again, averting his eyes from you and twiddling his thumbs.

You find yourself unconsciously relaxing, and you force yourself to remain alert, refusing to stop considering the possibility that he’s a spy, despite the fact that your gut feeling continues to say he’s not, and your defenses keep unconsciously slipping around him. There’s something about his presence that soothes the thick walls you’ve built around yourself, and cajoles them into relaxing. Into relenting.

Again, the feeling freaks you the fuck out, and you refuse to let your mind be suckered the way your instincts appear to have been. You remain critical of his every action, waiting for a slip up to reveal his affiliation with the Empress. Waiting for a crack to appear in this idiotic persona that he’s built.

“W-well! A-ah…the weather is lovely this morning isn’t it? Much better than yesterday,” he blusters, still grinning even as he flounders for words.  

“I’m not used to the city just yet. I’ve only been in a few cities you see, and never for very long. I’ve travelled all over the world, you know! My grandmother had quite the hefty sum in her bank account, and when she passed on it all went to me. It seemed a waste to spend it on some house for me to live in by myself, so I use it to travel, and live amongst all sorts of people around the world! Goodness, you wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen!” He grins widely, and the genuinely happy expression on his face again causes your walls to falter. Something warm blazes in your chest as he continues on, keeps talking, starts laughing at some memory, gets lost in his own rambling words until he is no longer fidgeting and uncomfortable in front of you.

“-the jungles of South America! I don’t know which I prefer, the ones there, or the ones in Africa. Both are filled with the most fantastical creatures. Things you can’t even imagine existing! And every step is a battle. You have to hack away at vines and creepers to get even a few paces, and a single wrong move will have you disturbing some venomous beasty, or attracting the attention of a predator! There are some paths you can only reach by climbing, and there are no safety harnesses in the wilderness! Ho ho! It’s a real exhilarating thrill, let me tell you!”

He gets more and more animated as he continues on, waving his arms about excitedly, and practically hopping up and down in his seat as he describes conquering steep mountains and navigating treacherous rivers. Against all odds, you find yourself, actually listening to what he’s saying, your mug of coffee sitting untouched in front of you. Your stony expression turns into one of mild amusement as he blathers on about narrowly avoiding death in deserts and taking on vicious muggers in Europe, as well as keeping company with a wide array of friendly hosts around the world. From a family with thirteen kids in Vietnam, to a lonely, lecherous widow in Austria.

You should be listening to him to find cracks in his stories. Faults, untruths, evidence to prove his guilt. But his stories are so wild, so crazy, with such a wide cast of characters, that no self-respecting spy would ever use them as a backstory. Too many made up people, too many made up events and places. It would be impossible for someone to make a life like Jake English’s up and expect people to believe it.

It is actually so crazy, that is has to be true.

You don’t know if you accept this conclusion because it makes sense, or because you’re tired of your head and heart being in disagreement, and will take any ‘proof’ that this Mr. English isn’t guilty. Regardless, you stop bristling, stop assessing, and when you ask him a question, it’s out of genuine curiousity, not suspicion.  

“So why did you come here?” you ask, in one of the rare pauses English takes in his long, rambling descriptions of his travels, “This city doesn’t seem like any of the other places you’ve been going on about.”

The other man freezes, completely seizes up, before absolutely lighting up like a fucking lantern, beaming from ear to ear.

“Excellent question, old chap! I’m quite glad you asked!” he replies ecstatically, and you assume with some confidence that what he’s really saying is that he’s glad the conversation is no longer entirely onesided. Inside, you smile wryly at the enthusiasm.

“You’ll recall, I was with my cousin last night,” he continues, his wide, beaming grin fading into a softer, fonder smile, “Dearest Jane is the only family I’ve got left in the world. We’re related distantly, it’s true, but we’ve chatted regularly over the interwebs for quite the number of years now, so we’re quite close! And, ah…”

That constant brightness that he’s been exuding during the entirety of your meeting seems to dim a bit, and his eyes drop down to peer into his lap. The sudden change in his demeanor causes something to pang painfully inside of you, and before you can analyze, before you can critically assess the situation and decide on the best course of action, you find yourself asking him what’s wrong.

He looks up, and his eyes are wide, as if he’s surprised by your question. You can’t blame him. You’re surprised too. Last time you checked, you were just hoping to get through this conversation so that you could leave this stupid shop and get English out of your life forever. There’s no reason for you to care about how English is feeling, or if something’s wrong.

You can’t find a reason for why you asked the question, not a logical one anyways, and you feel your face heating up under the scrutiny of English’s bewildered face.

And then his expression softens into something else entirely, and you have to fight the urge to look away, blindsided by the weird squishing sensation that just resonated within your stomach. He smiles, and you _do_ look away, much to your own surprise, clenching your teeth to the sound of his amused laughter.

“I’m quite alright friend, though I appreciate your concern,” he replies, no longer laughing but still with amusement flickering in his eyes, “I suppose it’s just a bit of a downer in my tale of adventure and bravery. Truth is, much as I enjoyed getting to know all sorts of people around the globe, deep down I felt a bit…displaced, so to speak.”

English falls silent, and his lips move soundlessly, as if he’s floundering to find the right words to express how he’s feeling. The word is an odd one. ‘Displaced’ isn’t often used to describe how humans feel in a situation. Regardless, the term resonates within you, and even as English searches for a way to explain, your own mind is whirring, your own experiences attaching themselves to that word, ‘displaced’.

“Like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit,” you find yourself saying, the words bypassing the normal ten-step filtration system your mind has in place, “Like an outsider, looking into a snowglobe. Able to touch the glass, maybe able to feel some of the warmth radiating through, but not a part of the world within. An outlier. A foreign element. Never connecting with anyone or anywhere. Displaced.”

Your mouth closes with an audible smack as soon as the last word has left your lips. The…sincerity of what you just said is a little alarming. It’s the closest you’ve come to acknowledging your own emotions and feelings since you were eleven years old. That single word, displaced, hit a chord you thought you had cut a long time ago.

English looks…shocked. Absolutely stunned. And a long second of silence stretches between you as his mouth flaps open and closed uselessly.

Finally, he licks his lips a few times, his eyes blinking rapidly as he appears to struggle to regain his composure.

“…Yes, that…that…that is it exactly,” he whispers cautiously, before inhaling sharply and rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Yes that…displaced. That’s it. I got tired of being an outside in all of the marvelous places I visited, and wanted to find somewhere I could…I could _fit._ I thought that, obviously, family would be the most sensible solution, so I contacted Dearest Jane and asked if she’d mind lodging me for a spell.”

His hand drops away from his eyes, and he looks at you curiously. It’s different then all the other times he’s looked at you. His eyes aren’t lit with a sort of manic enthusiasm. He’s not bubbling up energy and greetings or stammering out pleas for you to speak with him. It’s kind of like the way he first looked at you across the bar, but…deeper.

“I would ask you a question now,” he begins slowly, cautiously, “But I don’t think it would go over well. Tell me, if I asked you if you had any family, would you walk out on me, coffee be damned? If I asked you…if I asked you what sort of places you visited, what sort of things you’d seen, would you throw your coffee in my face?”

Something sharp creeps into his voice with the last few words, something harsher then the tone he’s used throughout your conversations, and you tense a little. You’re not as threatened by his tone as you think you should be. The feeling that’s swelling within you feels worryingly more like…guilt.

“And what would you do,” he continues, leaning forward with his eyes glinting sharply, catching your gaze, “If I had the utter audacity to ask you for your name again?”

In the short silence that follows, you run through your options over and over. Break down the situation, and decide what the best course for you to take is. The answer is obvious. You are an indentured servant to the megalomaniac with who murdered your brother and keeps your best and only friend as blackmail against you. Until you kill her, neither you nor Roxy will be free. And your brother, and her mother, will not be avenged. You don’t have time to entertain a stubborn, airheaded man. And furthermore, it would be downright irresponsible to get him involved with you. Dangerous. For him. He’s better off never seeing you again.

What you need to do is get up, leave, and not look back.

English turns away from you with a disgruntled sound, running fingers through the front of his hair before looking back towards you, leaning his arms on the table.

“What,” he begins, and his eyes catch yours again, holding you in place, burning into you with their surprising intensity, “Is your name?”

The blazing green sears into you and you feel something hot and thick burst within your chest. Doubt and suspicion and caution that have always been so tightly coiled around your mind are burned away and you think _no, I can’t, I shouldn’t,_ but his eyes are bright and he still reminds you of sunshine and-

Roxy once told you that you were your own greatest abuser, and that you beat away at happiness like it was a vile disease that you couldn’t afford to let touch you at any cost. But that’s always been okay. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve to be happy until you beat Her.

But when he looks at you, and green consumes your vision, and that world of heat and fire and blood in your mind is invaded by a world of jungle and trees and sky and ocean, you stop, and you think- you traitorously start to think-

_Maybe._

_Maybe._

_Maybe this is one thing that I can have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will try and get the next chapter up tomorrow. Since it will be a short one.  
> That said, this is the end of everything I've had prewritten. Yes, that is correct, despite my abysmal update time, everything I've posted thus far I wrote in like, July/August. Haha.  
> So idek what's gonna become of this fic after next chapter guess we'll see.


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